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Operation Hausberg by Bobby Cude "Operation Hausberg" is a fictionalized action filled suspenseful drama thriller about an Am... [1,667 words]
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I'm Psychotic And So Is My Friend Episode Six
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I'm Psychotic And So Is My Friend Episode Six
From a collection of 'episodes' following two lifelong friends; one being obsessive compulsive, the other sadistically maniacal.
[1,352 words]
Branson Storm
37 year old TEXAN. Desert recluse. Lover of vast space with no people to fuck it up, certain tobacco products, single malt scotch, politics, literature, beautiful women and all animals. My best friend is God. Please drive to the window...
[June 2003]
[email protected]
At Church With Amy (Poetry) Visiting Amy's lonesome grave in the desert. [84 words]
Beyond The Realm Of Us (Short Stories) A look into the life of a young writer who is left to live with the ghost of his beloved soulmate who died at the hands of a serial killer. [4,530 words] [Literary Fiction]
Casa Cantina De Loco (Short Stories) Crazy man, his favorite poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, and a sexy young girl... Marshall struggles with the complexity of gaining a new, less experienced lover or exploring the true reason for his post-div... [4,040 words]
Chemo Pastry Party (Short Stories) Miles walks through a dream induced by the drugs of his chemotherapy. [1,096 words]
Evolving To Simplicity; Our Lack Of Human Evolution (Essays) A few thoughts on why our species is incapable of achieving peace at this particular time. My belief that it begins with one and with some insight into where I came from, I know that if I can do it, ... [5,571 words]
Gone And Forgotten (Poetry) Death can only kill the memory. [115 words]
Heather Dream 4,836 (Poetry) Another tease from the ghost of my soulmate. [131 words]
Idee Fixe (Poetry) She's caught in my head. [37 words]
Kirby & I (Poetry) A late night walk in the desert with my cat, Kirby. [117 words]
Kissing My Spanish Woman (Short Stories) The time I kissed a very beautiful, younger girl and found out the value of such a kiss. [1,970 words]
Leaving On (Poetry) Words to family and friends prior to departing for a life of solitude. [208 words]
Life On The Vine (Poetry) A question of one's place and when or if it will ever change. [117 words]
Miles J. Jax, An Early Day In The Life (Short Stories) This section is an early excerpt from my novel. It will hopefully give the reader insight into the calamity of a broken-hearted man with two true loves, Lauren and fishing. [4,566 words]
My First Ann Coulter Poem (Poetry) A poem about how I feel when watching and listening to the thoughts and ideas of the Constitutional Attorney and author, Ann Coulter. [162 words]
Now (Poetry) A poem asking one to acknowledge and be that which one truly is. [36 words] [Mind]
Pueblo (Poetry) Passing through a small West Texas town. [68 words]
Send Me (Poetry) A poem asking God for the reason of my life. [128 words]
September Dusk (Poetry) Reaction to desert sunset. [122 words]
Silence & I (Poetry) Discovery of who's in control in absolute solitude. [20 words]
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The Life In You (Poetry) - [90 words]
The Only Dream I Have Ever Won (Short Stories) This is actually a part of Chapter 7 of my novel in progress. The main character, Miles, is also the main character in the short story "Without Condition" (which is actually Ch. 2), only this time I ... [2,198 words]
Through The Valley (Poetry) A walk through the valley of darkness. [891 words]
Waiting For Heather (Poetry) A poem to my lost soulmate. [155 words]
Without Condition (Short Stories) A free-spirited man struggles with his quest for true love as his life of drug addiction and strange women ultimately steer him toward his self-constructed destiny. [8,232 words] [Literary Fiction]
I'm Psychotic And So Is My Friend Episode Six
Branson Storm

[Episode Six]

Saturday, July 20th

“The favors for which we are most grateful are those that shred our pride in asking.”

- Blakedon Trazwell, Esq.

It was either my vulnerability to persistence or a sliver of compassion that had somehow manifested inside of me; regardless he had finally talked his way in to coming over. I was nothing more than a roaming ball of fury. Nothing would go my way. Outside my house the world roared past me, relentless and unremorseful. Noise and chaos and people and laws played a song to which I could no longer attune myself. The shell of my being had withered to skin, bones and lethargy. I had not eaten since five days past. It was voluntary starvation for the food that I did have was plentiful, but the thought of ingesting anything other than Prozac and orange juice was sickening. Over the years I have developed a reputation for fasting over different periods of time. Those who knew asked why, but the short answer, the only answer, never seemed quite clear to those who dared inquire, “To show God how much I love Him.” This lack of understanding gradually created a larger space of sterility around me, a cold cocoon in which the bacteria of neurosis could cultivate with decreased compromise by all the merciless means passing just outside my front door.

I quickly walked to the kitchen hoping to avoid the noise of life outside as he came in. At the sink I washed my hands for the umpteenth time today. This practice has become somewhat of an obsession over the past thousand days, why I don’t know. Most likely for the same reason I’ve been defecating in the backyard since my release from the hospital. There’s something about it that’s cleaner than cold porcelain. Immured by four planes of sheetrock wears like a straightjacket, restricting my ability to produce. Mostly it’s the natural high I feel buzzing inside of me afterwards, a sense of relief telling me that I did the right thing.

“Hi Gene,” I said, flicking water from my hands, strictly adhering to the method of air-dry only.

“You ready?”

“For what?”


“I’m not particularly hungry at the moment. There’s some vodka left in the bar. Why don’t you fix yourself a drink and relax?”

“I’m ready to go now.”

“I’m not.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing in particular. I’m just not ready to go yet.”

“I told you I’d be here at seven.”

“I know. It’s eight-thirty.”

“Then you should be ready.”

“You shouldn’t be late.”

“I had things to do. I’m sorry.”

“Go fuck yourself.” I walked out into the living room and sat on the sofa. Before he arrived I had been glued to the Astros/Rangers game. If the 4-4 tie wasn’t snapped in the next two innings, extra innings of interleague play would ensue. To me this was an interesting intoxication, to him a huge, intractable inconvenience. Schedules and plans controlled him, imprisoning a life grateful for its capture, but lately the artificial time constraints had begun to adversely erode the flowing tentacles of my spirit.

He sat across from me and glared in disgust as I hit a joint and watched the game.

“Quit staring at me.”

“Have you bathed today?”

“Quit fucking staring at me.”

“You’re pathetic.” As he turned away the starch in his clothes sounded off and I felt a quiver in my scrotum. I couldn’t believe that I once dressed like that; the long sleeve button-down shirt with some tacky logo embroidered on the chest screaming “I’m on the team too!” starched just a layer less than corrugated, pleated wool trousers, cuffed, of course, and maroon fucking penny loafers - with pennies, no socks. I’m surprised I didn’t get my ass kicked more often in those days. Maybe it’s my naturally unsettling frown, innate, burned into my complexion, an onus for life, forcing me to look at one as though the sun were in my eye but just enough to conceal the overwhelming feeling inside of me to kill.

I got after the weed some more while he sat staring at the television, though not watching a thing. I could just feel the tension radiating from the ensuing meltdown, but I refused to partake in such an argument with another male. There simply is no legitimate reason for drudging myself through a mile of erratic absurdity unless there truly lies a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I’d weather the storm until the rains stopped falling and the sky found new life in rich ocean blues and orange flames from a fleeting sunset, then submit to the stillness until it is killed by love or lust or the looseness in between, videlicet, there better be a prized piece of ass waiting at the end of this argument. But this was far from the case. The only thing waiting at the end of one of our dinners was a hangover that kept me inside, making this corner of the world a bit safer for a while.

“Have I done something wrong?” He just couldn’t let it go.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been an asshole to me for two weeks now. Did I do something to piss you off? Is it your depression? Is something else bothering you? What is it?”

“I’m not gonna do this.”

“Do what?”

“I’m not going to have this conversation with you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Why is it ridiculous?”

“We’ve both been married once already and I’m certain you’ll agree that divorce beats marriage hands down.”

“What’s the point?”

“If you want to have this argument with me then you’d better hit your knees and start sucking fast cause you’ve got a lot of catching-up to do.”

At first I thought he might actually be thinking about it, but he was just pissed, staring at me through the boil of steam in his eyes. I had gone from being someone he adored for saving his life to someone he despised for being an ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. Actually there was no lack of gratitude, just twisted frustration mounting inside me from his abnormally obsessive desire for recognition. His glare slashed at my mind like a studded bullwhip. The wheels inside froze. In my stillness I realized something that my ex-wife never could, you can’t look into a raging hurricane in search of rationale. You either run or you die.

“Call me when you want a real friend.” The front door slammed behind him. Within seconds he’d sped away.

“Run, Forrest, run,” I whispered in smoke. Grabbing my Bible from the coffee table, I went straight to Matthew. Lately it seemed the beatitudes gave me comfort when I was aching so heartily, yet incapable of amassing the physical energy to slaughter someone. If only he knew about the others and how close he was to joining them - if he had stayed, maybe, but he’d be the first one that I actually knew and how could I do something like that to a friend?

I fell off into the different ways. Each one has both advantages and disadvantages. Knives and bats are quiet, but you never know how stubborn some people can be. This makes the issue of time even more important. Pistols are loud, shotguns messy and suffocation is boring. I don’t mess with poison; it’s too complicated and extremely thankless.

This was a personal matter. I had suffered the anguish so long that I knew, should it happen, it would have to be extremely rewarding. A gun freak in his own right, I’d have to make certain that he was unarmed. At this point, like a thief in a dark house, I’d use my bare hands to steal back my sanity. Then into the black brush of the South I would bed down, allowing the cuts and bruises and broken bones in my hands to heal. Like a wolf quietly licking his wounds in the shade of a thousand pines, having triumphed in killing those most daring of the coyote pack.

Maple cracked at the plate. The crisp sound of stretched leather breaking a stick pulled me away and I imagined how glorious it would be to trot around the bases aglow in the thundering praise of all my fans.


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© 2002 Branson Storm
August 2002

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